Gone Three Days, He Ain't Comin' Back
by theraggles
Summary: It was one of those sleep deprived drunken stupors he'd put himself into and he had this crazy thought: Maybe, just maybe, if he could get the demon blood out… Rated T for dark themes.


_A/N: Set between Dean finding out about the blood and Sam getting trapped in the panic room. Song: What It's Like by Everlast. Just felt right. Don't own, but I think being on fan fiction was enough evidence for you. Anyone want to be the unofficial beta?_

Sam says he can't remember when it started, but even he knows that complete and utter bull shit. It was one of those sleep deprived drunken stupors he'd put himself into, similar to the ones when Dean was dead, and he just snapped. Dean saw him with Ruby. There had been a screaming match, and by match, he meant it was pretty one sided. He took the insults and the screams and the hits, but he couldn't bear it when Dean slammed the door shut behind him. Dean had been gone for days now, three to be exact, and if he honestly believed it, Sam would've told himself he wasn't counting.

"You're drink her god damned blood Sam? That's fucking _disgusting_," he had spat. Sam flinched.

"Where are you going," Sam asked with his head down.

"Out. With the Impala. Because I can actually spend time with it without having to worry if it's going behind my back with one fucking ugly demon bitch. At it doesn't fucking lie to me." He flinched again as the door slammed shut.

And he hadn't come back.

Sam had at least expected him to come home in a drunken stupor, tear his head off some more, and then fall asleep. And then maybe in the morning it would be back to the tense, strained relationship they'd had since Dean had come back. Maybe. If he was lucky. But of course he wasn't because he hadn't come back. He wasn't coming back.

And the truth was, Sam was tired. He was damn guilty, and fucking done. Just done with all this. Had been for a long time. He knows Dean thinks it started after the Hellhounds worked him over like a chew toy, but really that was just the last straw. He thinks it started when Yellow Eyes told him there was demon blood in him, or maybe when Meg hijacked his skin and whacked the hunter. Or maybe before that, when Dad had told Dean he might have to kill his baby brother. Maybe when Jess died, and he saw the whole thing before it happened. But he thinks it was Meg. She made him do all the things he know he could do, what he would do, what he was made for.

So he drank himself stupid.

Why did everyone leave him? His Mom, dead in his nursery, and Jess on his ceiling. Madison, he had to shoot her, and then there went Dad. Dean made that god damn deal, and died, then left him now, for things he's done. Why couldn't he have just left Sam dead? It would have saved all the pain, all this hurt, and Sam wouldn't hate himself. All this trouble, for his damned unworthy soul.

He looked up in the mirror; the purple bruises Dean had given him days ago were fading, but Sam knew he would see them forever on his face. He gulped down more of the whiskey, his fifth one since Dean left.

It was one of those sleep deprived drunken stupors he'd put himself into, similar to the ones when Dean was dead, and he had this crazy thought: Maybe, just maybe, if he could get the demon blood out… Dean would want him again. So he got out his knife and tugged across the thin skin of his left wrist and the paper ripped and the ink bled. It didn't feel good, not exactly. But he'd be kidding himself if he said it hurt. It might have been the alcohol in his blood 'cause he was numb, but the blood kept oozing and he felt the pressure on his heart ease up. So he drank the rest and he sank down to the floor, slicing another line across his wrist.

He turned his head and the world swam, the red brothers mocking up at him.

"_It's disgusting!_" The shorter gash screamed. But it wasn't the cut, it was the blood, and then it wasn't the blood, it was Dean standing in front of him and he was glaring and sneering, blood coming from his hairline, and around his eyes. Then it was over his lips and down his chin soaking his clothes and then leaking off his arms. But the light was too bright and there were too many Deans all shouting and flickering without even moving. The lights burned through Sam's eyes, and Dean burned through his brain, and the blood burned through his soul.

He tried to focus on the real Dean, but he was everywhere, and he was shining a light in Sam's eyes and sneering. All at once the chatter came, swimming around and the world tilted again. Sam closed his eyes and jammed his ears shut. He could feel the full length mirror mock him, and when he turned to look at it he saw himself and only himself. He gasped in relief, but then it wasn't him in the mirror, it was his father.

"See Sammy?" He leered. "This is what I knew would happen. Dean should have killed you, but he just felt so sorry for you. I'm glad I got away so fast, never thought it would be that easy." His eyes turned black and put two fingers to his head, but then it was a real gun and he pulled the trigger.

Sam screamed and scrambled in the bath tub. He held his knife out, curled in on himself. Someone was breathing heavily, panting down his neck, but when he turned, it was only his own breath. There was a rustle to his left. _There!_ It was Dean standing outside, ready to put a bullet in his head. And Dad, coaxing his tin soldier from down behind his back.

"No, no, no, no…"

All he could see were those black eyes, blinking and grinning, but not on his father's face, his own. Hands placed on Dean's shoulders, the other Sam whispered in his ear, and when Dean tried to chase the sound, the other Sam was on the other side.

Black eyes focused on him, and Sam stared at himself as Dean nodded as he brought his gun up. The sound shook Sam's bones so he grabbed his knife and the brothers weren't alone.

"Just one more," he whispered. "Red mommy and red daddy, two little red boys, red sinner, red killer and red lust for red man–"

Before the world went dark, he heard one last long laugh, but he couldn't tell if it was his own.

_A/N: I'm thinking of making this a three chapter long story or something. Would that be a good idea, or is it good like this, or does it suck and I need to go back to 3__rd__ grade English?_


End file.
